Whipping Boys
by The escARGOT warriors
Summary: Les Amis find a strange object in the back room of the Musain...


Disclaimer: We do not own Les Mis, thank the gods. Or else twould be veeeeeeeeeeeeery different.

The students of the ABC were standing in the middle of the back room of the Café Musain, puzzled. There was something on the centre table. A black, snake-like something, made of leather.

"Whose whip is that?" Feuilly's brow furrowed in confusion.

All turned to Courfeyrac.

"Hey, don't look at me!" He looked suddenly thoughtful. "Of course, if no one WANTS it…"

"More importantly, what's it doing HERE?" Combeferre straightened his glasses. "Well, one thing's for certain. It's not mine. The good must be innocent."

Jehan Prouvaire poked Combeferre. "What IS that, anyway?"

Combeferre coughed. "Just… don't ask, dear."

Enjolras strode into the cafe with his usual 'bow before my beauty stride'.

"Merciful Zeus!" he cried as he mentally quivered at the sight of the leather beast. "To whom does this belong and why have they not invited me...I mean...why have they not confessed to defiling the um...café...? Courfeyrac?"

"IT'S NOT MINE!!!"

"It's got to be somebody's," snapped Enjolras. "Who, of us revolutionaries...would possible allow an obstacle such as LUST obstruct us from our goal of orgasms--I mean...err," Enjolras stammered. "Our goal of justice!"

Everyone's eyes turned to Courfeyrac.

"It's NOT MINE!" he shouted through gritted teeth. "I don't use WHIPS, I use CHAINS! There's more symbolism in chains! I am a slave to passion, not a victim!"

Jehan poked Combeferre again. "What does he mean? What use would Courfeyrac have for chains?"

"Just go play with your flowers or practice your skipping or something."

"Let us solve this mystery," proclaimed Enjolras, running his fingers through his silky blond locks. He gazed upon the pleasure weapon once more. "It cannot be mine--not only do I not own a horse nor woman, I was not here this morning. Thus I could not have left it."

"I will repeat, the good must be innocent." Combeferre adjusted his glasses importantly.

"What IS it?" Jehan asked, still very confused.

"Well, it wasn't made in Poland…" Feuilly muttered. "Can't be mine. You know, the Poles make wonderful whips. In fact, in Poland, the whips make a lovely cracking sound…"

"As much as I'd love to hear you rant about Polish whips, Feuilly, I must point out that ALL whips make that sound, regardless of their country of origin." Combeferre smiled.

"Yes, but they crack in Polish!"

"They crack… in Polish?"

"Of course! Observe this, " demonstrated Feuilly, grabbing hold of the whip. He cracked it, the whip making a decided 'WA-PASH' sound. "See? That was not a Polish noise!"

"He knows how to crack a whip! You have obviously used one before!" exclaimed Enjolras. 'Hm...I wonder if he's free tonight?' he pondered.

"Yes, but not silly French-made whips like this one!"

"Don't touch it!" Joly screamed. "You don't know where that's been!"

"Wanna hear a good lawyer joke?" asked Bahorel suddenly, demonstrating his completely lack of timing, tact and wit. "Two men walk into a bar--"

"I think we have more pressing matters to deal with." Enjolras lay a hand on Bahorel's arm to quiet him. "Perhaps IT belongs to The Winecask."

They all looked to the corner, where Grantaire was sitting sprawled out among at least 8 bottles of absinthe.

"Not mine." He slurred, while visions of Enjolras danced in his head. It goes without saying that these dancing Enjolrii were clad in black leather and were wrapped around poles.

"Are you sure?"

The dancing, leather-clad Enjolrii began to do provocative pelvic thrusts, and Grantaire smiled drunkenly, reflecting that the dancing Enjolras on the far right had a split seam in his trousers that was growing by the second.

Bossuet ran a hand over his bald, shiny head that he had only just waxed that morning. "Well, it can't be mine, I lost mine years ago… accidentally dropped it when I tripped on a conveniently-placed banana peel…"

Combeferre invented the light bulb, and hung one over his head. "DING!" he shouted. "I know, we should make 'Found' posters! We could put our addresses on them, and whoever lost it could come to one of our flats and pick it up!"

"But…" Feuilly said darkly, "Who will be the one to take that… that That home?"

Courfeyrac jumped up and down waving his arms like a chicken on speed, but no-one noticed.

Enjolras sniffed. "No one has enough humility to come forward and proclaim their...moral debauchery." He shook his head, then glanced at Grantaire who was openly drooling.

"Perhaps one or two people," he amended.

"So we're making posters?" asked Jehan. "Oh! Fun! Can we decorate them?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, of course Jehan, you may make them." Combeferre said, attempting to wash his hands of the matter. The good must be innocent, after all.

The next day, Jehan came in late, looking pink and out of breath. "It took me all morning, but they're all up! All over Paris! Except this one, which I'm hanging in the window here." Jehan held up his poster, which was written in crayon, and began to read aloud, as from an unknown location, bongo drums began to play.

"Found: One black, snake-like, leather object

Combeferre won't tell me what it is

But it is lost

What a cost

It might have been.

The stars laugh at our folly

And the sunflowers weep with me.

If it belongs to you, dear reader

Go to the Café Musain

And ease your troubled heart."

He bowed his head.

The other patrons of the Café Musain began to snap their fingers.

"It doesn't rhyme." snorted Grantaire sharply, returning to his drunken stupor. Jehan buried his face in his hands and began to weep.

"Quit blubbering." snapped Enjolras.

"But… no one likes my poster!" whined poor Jehan with bloodshot eyes.

"Who cares about your little poster?" Enjolras stared Jehan in the eye. "We strive toward a larger goal! We must find the owner of this...instrument and rape him!"

A dozen eyes look upon him quizzically. "I mean… rape him of his freedom and liberty," Enjolras amended. "…yeah."

"He probably gives great lap dances…" Bahorel whispered to Combeferre, watching Enjolras's hips.

"He does." Combeferre whispered back.

"What a little revolutionary slut. He told me I was the only one."

"That's what he told Joly, Feuilly, and me."

"Anyway!" Enjolras said, louder than usual. "Let us wait for our new sex monkey… I mean, the owner of that… that That… to arrive!"

The door to the back room opened. A man who looked like he had his cheeks covered in molasses and then was sent to brush the dog in windy weather came in. He carried a nightstick.

"Kinky…" Bossuet muttered admiringly.

"I found this flyer…? My name is Inspector Philippe Pierre Christophe Emile Georges Maximilien Antoine Camille Laurent Marie Annabelle Frederic Ashley Stacey Javert the 5.97265th."

"Hello, umm… Monsieur." Enjolras extended his hand. "Is that… That yours?"

Suspiciously, the inspector took the hand. "There is something about you I don't like," hissed Javert. "You have shifty eyes. What are you plotting?" he exclaimed passionately, seizing Enjolras by the shoulders.

"You DARE touch Enjie?!?!" gasped Grantaire. "I think not, sir!"

With a whoosh, Capital R knocked Javert over, sending Enjolras and the inspector onto the floor in a heap. Enjolras brushed himself off, checked his hair and addressed the policeman.

"Will you please go and identify the object?" he asked coldly.

The inspector leaned forward and observed the whip. "Nope. Mine's pink. Come along, Love Slave Number 24601." An old man that was handcuffed at his wrists and ankles hopped beside the Inspector happily.

"Back to your place?"

"Where else?" With that remark, they exited the cafe, leaving Les Amis alone with the whip.

"NOOOOOOO!!!" Combeferre sobbed. "WE'LL NEVER BE RID OF IT!!! THE GOOD MUST BE INNOCENT!!!"

"What IS it?" Jehan asked again.

"I could show you…" Courfeyrac muttered.

"It's HIS fault!" screamed Joly, pointing wildly at Bossuet. "He's bad luck! He gave me syphilis!"

"…That's not bad luck, Joly, that's just an STD." Combeferre rolled his eyes.

"How could I give you syphilis? I don't have syphilis!"

"You gave it to me with your MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIND! He's a witch! BURN HIM!!!"

"Stop!" Enjolras held out his hands, his sapphire eyes sparkling with blue flames and his golden head tossed back majestically. "Don't you see what this kinky sex toy is doing to us? It's tearing our band of young, sexy, flamingly homosexual frenchboys into a young, sexy, flamingly homosexual frenchboy mob!"

All were quieted by this deep and meaningful thinking.

"Apollo is right." Grantaire said to a nearby coat rack, before he began singing. "Why can't we be friends, why can't we be friends, why can't we be friends…"

The Café suddenly went dead quiet as Marius Pontmercy entered.

"Hello guys… hey, I wondered where I left that!" Marius happily skipped over to the table and seized the whip. "Gosh, I thought I lost it! What a relief! Well, good bye, I have to go show Cosette. She'll be so pleased I found it!" With that, he skipped out of the café, whistling a happy tune.

The Amis never spoke of the incident again.


End file.
